


Remember

by KenrakenOkwaho



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, Dreams, Germany, Hurt, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Slash, Light Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Memories, Multi, No Smut, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Steve Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10081868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KenrakenOkwaho/pseuds/KenrakenOkwaho
Summary: Tony has a strange dream... or is it a memory?SPOILERS for Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2011)





	1. Revelations

_Cold, mind-numbing cold seeps through the thin clothes covering his battered body as voices echo around him, their holders running around him in a flurry of shadows and icy gasps of breath._

_**"Where are the horses?"** _

****

**_"They're behind!"_ **

**_"We need them!_ **

****

**_"You wanna go back?"_ **

_**"What's our way out?"** he hears himself asking the woman running ahead... at least he thinks it's his voice, everything seems so real, the trees, the sky, the fragments of wood that make him stumble slightly, the freezing wind lashing its whips across his bloody face. His body feels like his body, yet it's not his body, his heart clenches with the same kind of thrilling fear that usually overwhelms his senses when he fights in his suit. He is vulnerable, even more vulnerable than his normal self._

_He gets his answer when the whistle of a train reverberates through the relative silence of the forest, its smoke rising high in the distance " **That's our way out!"**_

_Suddenly, their hope is overshadowed by the piercing, somewhat familiar, sound of bullets and projectiles chasing them as the distinctive harshness of German words booms behind their retreating forms. It feels like Afghanistan all over again. He doesn't like it._

_They jump, evade, they slip on damp and frosted leaves, chaotic fumbling betraying the panic in their souls as deft shots tear their garments, scratching skin, maybe even puncturing muscles, he doesn't know, he doesn't feel, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his companions fire back, their shells of compact metal reaching their targets with ease and speed. His blood runs cold, yet its burning flow gives his muscles strength, filling every part of his body with renewed vigour as they keep sprinting towards safety, exhaustion clouding their eyes, losing focus, yet keeping their concentration and intensity at the same time. Out of nowhere, the thundering rumble of a howitzer signals a potential agonising death as it crushes trees, chips of bark and chunks of earth scattering everywhere, embedding themselves into his waiting flesh. Everything around him was in slow motion, every scream, every sharp shot, every expression of each member of their smaller and smaller group. One of the missiles explodes right beside him, sending his body flying through the chill air before landing painfully on the hard ground, consciousness leaving him for a few second as he lies sprawled in the dirt, a man whose name his mind whispers is John falling beside him. He opens his eyes quickly, patting his moustached comrade on the arm, urging both of them to get up and fight. The two of them dance around the soldiers with all the grace of a connoisseur of martial arts, punching, twisting wrists and arms, killing enemies with their own weapons. He sees the train approach at high-speed, their only chance of escaping slipping through their fingers along with each wagon that passes as they keep running in hopes they will manage to climb into the only open freight car._

**_"Go!_ ** **_Go!"_ **

◇◇◇

Brown eyes snap open, the vivid images jolting him awake, shaky gasps raking his body in spasmodic patterns as he tries to compose himself, to stop the trembling of his limbs and the pain at the back of his skull as a light sheen of sweat covers his skin. The dream was quite peculiar, especially because it didn't feel like a dream, it seemed to be a memory. A memory from when? He doesn't know. Neither does he know from where or with whom he was. All he knows is that he hates the feelings it brought to the surface of his heart as bits of recollections locked away emerge in torrents from within his tormented mind. However, the brief scenario created a connection between him and the person in his dream, be it actually him or someone else, but... it must have been him, him Tony... well, another Tony, but still himself, the characteristic eccentric vibe around his persona, the brilliant intelligence and mentally inordinate agility striking him as powerful similarities. If he is to be honest with himself, his cunning, vengeful and rather egotistical demeanour was present as well in the depths of his dream self, his enigmatic, selfish, narcissistic nature standing out even in another world. Well, leave it to him to see more flaws than qualities.

And, even though he senses the lack of basic empathy rooted deep into his other self, one thing proves that he was indeed capable of such a feeling, his deep care for the man who  was always by his side, literally and figuratively. What was his name... hmmm, ah, yes, John. The bond between them was certainly unbreakable, there's nothing more to be said, words would stain the purity of that bond. It reminds him of his relationship with Steve... well... what's left of it after all the chaos with the Government and Barnes. He wishes things would have gone differently, he wishes the Avengers were still together... he wants all of that back, but he can't forgive and forget, not yet. He knows that what happened to his parents is not Barnes' fault, but he just can't find it in himself to give him a second chance right now. He knows he can... later.

Returning to the matter at hand, he must not forget this dream, it means something, he doesn't know what, but maybe with time everything will become clear. He leans back down, resting his head on the pillow, eyes closing slowly with wonder and excitement still sparkling in them. Maybe he will dream again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at kenrakenokwaho.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hugs!


	2. Bonds

And he really dreams again... and again and again, each particular night when he allows himself to put his work aside replaying in his mind fragments of what he is now sure are recollections. He doesn't dwell on them too much, his work is more important, and he is glad they don't disturb his naps, otherwise he'd be a goner. Sometimes he even goes to sleep two nights in a row, out of pure fascination for what memories will unfold next. Most of the time he sees his other self and the man whose full name is, unsurprisingly, John Watson running around solving murders, fighting adversaries and many such things, the name Blackwood flashing before his mind's eye. He even had a dream about Jack the Ripper... it left him... disgruntled, frustrated because he never managed to puzzle out who the criminal was nor the real reason for his killing spree. This vision (oddly, not his partner's name) was the standstill that made him realise what his neurological sphere wanted to tell him, he is... or, more likely, was Sherlock Holmes. Strange, he always thought, like everybody else, that the man was a figment of Doyle's imagination, certainly not a real person. No one ever could attest to his existence, yet here he is, having a quite active REM sleep thanks to some genetic data stuck in his brain. They're not identical, but the similarities are uncanny, exacerbated eccentricity, a plentiful, inexhaustible fountain of intelligence, rude behaviour, cynicism and skepticism make them the perfect DNA match without even having the proof of such a connection. Maybe he is crazy, he wouldn't put it past himself, he is damaged enough, but he truly believes in what his synapses are showing him.

Three months have passed since his first remembrance, three fascinating, yet exhausting months. He doesn't plan of doing anything about these occurrences, not yet, but soon. He's waiting for something, he doesn't know exactly what, but he feels it approaching. Maybe he's waiting for the whole version of Sherlock's real life and death, not Doyle's vague ending for the novel. His wish won't be fulfilled in that regard, at least for now, but he will get to see the live action short dream-film presenting Sherlock's supposed death. Thus, two days later, when his head hits the pillow and he's out like a light, his past finally graces him with a glimpse of one of the most known stratagems... or hoaxes in fictional, now confirmed to be actually real, history.

◇◇◇

_He feels the pipe clenched between his teeth as it hangs slightly on his lower lip, eye contact with the bearded man in front of him never breaking **"Moriarty"**   his mind whispers. Contempt fills his heart when he looks at said man, two pairs of eyes conveying clearly both of their emotions. It's easy for Tony to understand this level of hate, been there done that, it seems they even have this in common. The dull pain throbbing in his right shoulder numbs his arm for a second, and he can't suppress the slight flinch he gives when he pulls out the lighter. However, like Tony himself, he keeps his witty and sarcastic nature "I seem to have injured my shoulder. Would you mind?"_

_The other studies him for a few moments, probably trying to figure out what the sharp cogs in his cerebral matter plan while they rotate at high-speed. The man gives nothing away when he smirks condescendingly and takes the lighter from his gloved hand "Will be my pleasure." but his detective self obviously knows better, always on guard as he takes a step closer._

_"Once we have concluded our business here, it's important you know... I shall endeavor to find the most creative of endings for the doctor... and his wife."_

_He represses his rage quite well if he does say so himself, but he cannot stop the fleeting intention of strangling the man right then and there without a second thought. How dare he threaten them? How dare he threaten **him**? The "him" in that question is a bit unclear, although he knows it doesn't refer to himself, but to John. Realisation dawns on Tony, plain, evident, and definite: Sherlock's relationship with Watson meant so much more than mere partnership, and, oh, man, they crossed that line a long time ago. It was pure, unadulterated love, shared love, yet forbidden due to conspicuous reasons. _

_His past self doesn't dwell on his impulses, he begins to analyze his odds, processing them with such speed and accuracy that even Tony would've had problems following his train of thought if it wasn't for the slow motion movements his mind seemed to insert just at the right moments **"His advantage, my injury. My advantage, his rage. Incoming assault feral, but experienced. Use his momentum to counter."** He can't say he feels the punches, but he has some kind of satisfaction when he virtually hits his target straight in the face. **  
**_

_What's strange is that he can also hear what Moriarty thinks, so smug, and utterly disgusting as he smirks yet again, raising an eyebrow challengingly while he elaborates his own analysis of the possible outcome of their fight **"Come now, you really think you're the only one who can play this game? Trap arm, target weakness. Follow with haymaker."**_

_The two appear to be synchronised in their resolutions, and facetious... or rather flippant, Sherlock mentally mocks his opponent **"Ah, there we find the boxing champion of Cambridge."**_

 

_**M: "Competent, but predictable. Now, allow me to reply."** _

 

_**S: "Arsenal running dry. Adjust strategy."** _

 

_**M: "Wound taking its toll."** _

 

_**S: "As I feared. Injury makes defense untenable. Prognosis, increasingly negative." damn, he's cornered.  
** _

 

_**M: "Let's not waste any more of one another's time. We both know how this ends."  
** _

 

_In that reality, Moriarty throws him over the balcony, but no, not in this one **"Conclusion: inevitable. Unless..."**_

_They smile ironically at each other before he blows the ashes from his pipe into Moriarty's annoyingly, and foolishly confident face. The bastard never saw it coming. He wraps his arms around the other's neck, impeding any move he might make. He hears the door's click before he sees it opening, John's deceivingly calm features coming into view. He hoped it will be done sooner, before his partner arrived, before he would be able to see the fleeting glint of pain in those azure reflections of the sky. But... what's done is done, it cannot be undone. Regret, pain, sorrow, remorse, love, all of them swirl in his glossy, brown orbs, trying desperately to ask for forgiveness. He cannot bear to look at him anymore. He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly in order to conjure up the courage and selflessness necessary to topple them both over the balcony. In a heartbeat he does just that, falling, and falling in the very same slow motion he came to like over the three months he's been having these visions. For some time, more likely second, neither of them lets go as they descend through the fog, snow caressing their skins. He closes his eyes yet again, granting himself the peace of his impending death, the freezing wind numbing his senses, soft snowflakes bringing him comfort, solace. The crystal clear water of Reichenbach Falls awaits both of them down below, its turbid torrent roaring in his ears... so... soothing._

◇◇◇

It's peculiar how he doesn't wake up with a distress overload. On the contrary, he feels tranquil, relaxed, maybe the embrace of death is his hidden desire... who knows, he subdued to its lull many times. Now that he experienced first hand what had happened in his past life as Sherlock Holmes, he can't help but wonder if he truly died that day, and Doyle just came up with an idea to continue the detective's legacy, or if he survived, and everything written after that was also real. No matter, he will investigate that somehow... later. What really piques his interest is the bond between Sherlock and John. It makes Tony think of Steve and himself, but at a lower level of affection. However, he can't completely associate this emotion with Steve, even though it's close enough to what the two detectives had. All he knows is that it's just bordering on that. He hates it. Even more thrilling is the possibility of a reincarnated John... hmm... would he feel again the love he felt back then... he has the vague impression he would, soulmates are soulmates after all. If something like that indeed happens... will he be able to forget Steve, to let him go? Despite everything that transpired, he cares about the naive patriot... too much if you ask him... he actually thinks he loves him. So many potential situations... he should stop thinking about that now, he has better things to do, like working on upgrading his arc reactor, as well as his suit, a new armour design perhaps, new capabilities for its systems, more power for its repulsors and unibeam, a new concept for its missiles... there are so many options when it comes to progress. All in all, an improved Mark is imperative, at this point. Past lives can wait.

****


	3. And So We Found Each Other Once Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mix of the comics, the MCU and my very active imagination :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is focused more on Steve than the main plot, but I felt he deserved more attention, even though it is expressed in my angsty way.
> 
> Enjoy!

Ten years have passed since his life crumbled down for one last time. Ten years swirled into a tornado of emotions, of pain and death and grief and sorrow, fights, betrayal, love and friendship. Ten years that have changed the world in so many ways, that have brought Tony the wisdom he lacked and the kindness that hid inside his heart for such a long time, only appearing in critical moments. He's tired of rebuilding so he doesn't even try. And remembers, he remembers well how foolish he was only days after all that mess with the Sokovia Accords, believing things will be back to normal if given enough time. Oh, how wrong he was, they killed Steve one week later, they killed him with no remorse. Hydra, the Government, the people, the lines between allies and enemies were frail, now even more so, and they keep getting thinner and thinner. You never know who to trust, who to protect, your own blood can betray you without a second thought and it is fine... it's fine... because humans are humans, paradoxical creatures that search and demand goodness, kindness, virtues they do not deserve yet worship with an impressive singlemindedness. No matter, they do it only theoretically so it's useless, superficial, not worthy of consideration. And oh, the irony is laughable, they ask for them, they wish for peace, but all they do is destroy and burn down everything in their path in order to fulfill selfish ideals. He was and, in a way, still is one of those people, he has no right to judge, but he will do that nonetheless, until the day he dies. They took Steve away from him... he wanted them to pay for it, the flame of revenge clouding his mind even now, but he's out of energy, the will to fight had left him a long time ago so it's only fair to let his anger simmer until it extinguishes completely. It will pass. He blames himself.

He misses him so damn much... such a beautiful soul... too gentle, too pure for this wicked world. Each night, he drowns in what seems to be a wellspring of bitter tears, an endless torment that will haunt the depths of his heart until the end of time. He was so focused on what he thought was right... God... he didn't even have the chance to apologise, to say I love you and goodbye. By the time he made up his mind it was too late... and what's the use of whispering vain excuses and regrets to a dead body, covered in the innocent blood of a true patriot and man of honour, the kind of blood that will stain Tony's hands forever, never to be erased from memory, never to be forgotten.

He's lucky, what remained of the Avengers surprisingly stood by him after that, after all that chaos and destruction, they still gave him the support and friendship he has thirsted for most of his life. He is forever indebted to them. Natasha, Clint, Bruce, Vision, Wilson, even Barnes and Wanda were there, by his side, regardless of the difficulties they encountered along the way. Yet the pain did not and could not go away, it will never go away, despite his teammates' efforts to alleviate it, attempts that failed and kept failing to this day. They are to be admired, though, they're still trying to achieve the impossible. It wasn't tough for him to resign himself, he came to terms with it quite quickly and learned to live with it like he did with countless other burdens, the shoulders of a Stark can bear the weight of the whole world after all. He does not wish for love or peace... maybe he did... once... an eternity ago... he had them too... but he gave up on them before they had the chance to bloom into a silly, uncontrollable hope.

The soft touch of a snowflake brings him out of his dark thoughts and he looks up. The moon shines bright, its silver rays cascading over the skyscrapers along with the twinkling stars. Enchanting. Glancing to the side, he sees expensive suits staring at him through the window of a shop. In a flash, his moment of serenity is broken into tiny, fragile shards. They're jeering, mocking him for the way he chose to live his younger years. Hollow eyes focus on his weary features then, almost sneering back at him as his pale, too pale, skin begins to resemble that of a ghost  with each passing second, rather than a human. Graying hair floats with the breeze of the winter, wrinkled hands trembling at his sides, either from the cold or from another reason, he doesn't know, nor does he care. So many times he wished for death that it is not surprising that he thinks about it often... maybe he deserves it... no, he's certain he deserves it... but... He shakes his head and he keeps walking, it's not the time.

After a while, he turns a corner. Lost in contemplation yet again, he doesn't see the equally lost person coming right at him. They bump into each other, of course, neither prepared for the impact as they stumble.

"I'm so-"

They do not get to finish their pardons, both stopping mid sentence as chocolate orbs meet clear emeralds. Sparks of electricity fill his entire body as he is sure they do the other's too, recognition flickering in their gazes.

Lips suddenly dry, throat soar, palms sweaty, he swallows the lump lodged in his windpipe "I'm Tony." he blurts out, the slight hesitation in the other man's behaviour making him regret his lack of tact.

However, he probably misinterpreted that because a smile brightens his soul mate's face "I'm John. Nice to meet you." he replies, extending his hand in greeting.

They shake hands and warmth spreads through his veins like never before. It makes him feel alive again. It chases away the chill in his bones, the emptiness in his core. He abandoned the idea of ever feeling whole in this life. And, suddenly, he feels ashamed. How could he forget about his past life!? About his soul mate?! The agony, the misery, all that suffering tarnished his spirit so much that they wiped out every recollection like they were nothing? It's strange because now that he thinks about it, he loved Steve with such a passion and he wasn't even aware before his death, a feeling so strong, so real, like a second soul mate maybe... he will never know. A cough interrupts his musings. He shifts his attention back to the Englishman in front of him, realising that he's still holding his hand.

He doesn't let go. Neither does John. He opens his mouth to make one of his characteristic jokes, no matter how rusty they became lately.

But John beats him to it "I missed you, Holmes."

 


End file.
